Thorn in the Flesh Page 6

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said as she left. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

  ***

  It was good to be in her office again. The Linguistics Department was small, nothing but a shared space in a corner of an old 1960s’ concrete building inhabited by the Sociology and Philosophy Departments but, still, it was hers. A place with no memories of pain and with objects – papers, linguistics books, an old blue paperweight – that were truly hers, not belonging to those she loved, no matter how kind they were. Her first seminar was at 10am, but Kate had arrived early, at 8.15. She’d wanted to get here before anyone else. She needed her return to be as unnoticed as possible. Sitting at her beige-coloured desk, she stared out of the window for a moment before leafing through the outstanding post while she waited for the computer to hum into life. Nothing much there of direct importance: a new leaflet giving advice on how to deal with students with mental health difficulties; an invitation to a retirement party for someone she hadn’t heard of; three new directives for the department, none of which she had any objections to. Good. She was glad nothing urgent had happened while she’d been away. Her students had coped with the onset of exams, or someone else had helped in any crises. Possibly Professor Dickinson. She would have to catch up with him as soon as possible, just in case.

  Of course, he would do that anyway. Given the circumstances. Brushing her hand across her eyes, she leaned forward to click the Start menu on screen when a shiver passed over the back of her neck. Outside, in the corridor, she heard a distant squeak, as if someone’s shoe had hit an unsteady floorboard.

  Had someone been watching her?

  She swung round in her chair. ‘Hello? Who’s that? Who’s there?’

  No reply. In three strides, she was at the door, flinging it open. She looked right towards the department reception area, where someone was most likely to have entered, and then immediately left, along the corridor towards the other offices. Nobody. She was being stupid. Nobody was here but herself. It was only 8.25am. The secretary and the professor wouldn’t be arriving until 8.30am. No need for them to be any earlier; she’d said she’d be in at 9am. Still, the quiver in her flesh refused to ease itself and so she walked down to the reception area, built in an L-shape between the outside world and the academic staff.

  Nobody there. Of course not. Only empty desks, old posters and the usual overflowing in-trays. Nothing to worry about. It had been the wind, nothing more.

  On the short walk back to her office, she hummed a Mozart aria under her breath and told herself once again not to be oversensitive. She was in no danger here.

  It was only when she was pushing open her office door that the blank envelope caught her eyes. It was lying in the space between the bottom of the door and the threshold, half-hidden under a piece of loose carpet.

  She couldn’t tell if it had been there when she walked out of the office towards Reception or if it had only been put there now, on her walk back. Sweat clung to her skin and clothes, as she turned round wildly to confront her enemy, fight him off if necessary.

  Still no-one.

  Her throat as dry as an autumn leaf, she picked up the envelope, turning it over to look at the front. No postmark, not even her name on it this time. How long had it been there and who had delivered it? She must keep calm; perhaps it wasn’t what she thought, perhaps it was only a student wanting to see her. Sometimes they left notes like this, though on the whole email was their preferred mode of communication.

  She had to open it.

  Stumbling into the room, fingers scrabbling at the envelope, she couldn’t seem to get a grip on it. The seal was stuck fast. She stared around for a letter opener, saw it at the edge of the desk, grabbed it and …

  ‘Kate?’

  ‘What?’

  When she turned, staggering back against her chair, what she saw in the doorway wasn’t a young man with blue eyes threatening her very existence, but a familiar figure, tall, grey-haired, slightly stooping, eyes blinking and benign.

  ‘Professor Dickinson,’ Kate could hear the hysteria of relief, the near-laughter in her voice. ‘Andrew. It’s you.’

  ‘Yes, of course. My dear, it’s so good to see you. I’d thought you were arriving later. If I’d known you’d be here now, then of course I would have come to meet you.’

  ‘No, please. I’m fine. Really I am.’ As she spoke, Kate dropped the letter behind her, out of sight. No matter how kind he was, she couldn’t tell him about it. She simply couldn’t. Frowning, she turned back to see Professor Dickinson’s eyes following her action, but he said nothing about it. Instead he shook his head and gave her an uncertain half-smile.

  ‘That’s not really true, is it?’ he said, glancing once at the desk and then upwards at her. ‘But I’m glad you’re here, back with us, Kate. Why don’t we go to my office and we can have a chat? The chairs are much more comfortable there, you know. Privilege of rank.’

  In his office, Kate waited as the professor tutted, moved two large stacks of paper across the desk and tried to close his briefcase. She smiled. Professor Dickinson’s briefcase was brown and shabby, and the clasp didn’t work, although it displayed some evidence of attempted repairs carried out unsuccessfully in the past. It was rumoured in the department that he’d bought it from a high-class London store in the days when academics’ salaries had stretched that far, but since then any aura of elegance and history had long since drifted away. Now the case held within its dark leather walls an assortment of old essay papers, notes on a book about Chomsky that the professor had once promised to write and torn pictures of his three grandchildren, when all of them were still under six. They were much older now.

  These were the items the case always contained. In addition, the days and seasons brought a selection of fresher objects, more subject to change. The cream cheese and lettuce bagel Mrs Dickinson made for him on a Monday morning when she had the time; his weekly copy of The Times Higher, often scanned but never read; a pair of blue woollen mittens and matching scarf in winter; and a small bottle of Malvern Original still water in summer. If now Kate dared to lean into the briefcase’s professorial world and breathe in its secrets, she was sure the first thing she would notice would be the smell of kindness.

  ‘Kate?’

  Without her realising it, the professor had already started to talk.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was thinking of something else.’

  ‘Of course, of course. Do take a seat.’ He waved his hand at the assortment of chairs in the corner and Kate chose the one that looked the cleanest. ‘I’m so glad you’re back. As I’ve said already. We’ve missed your sense, your abilities. I’m most terribly sorry about what has happened, we all are, and I don’t have the words to try and help, and I don’t even know where to start, but please remember that if there’s anything I can do or which anyone else can help you with, you must ask me.’

  Kate felt her face redden and, unable to express her thanks in words, simply nodded. For the next few minutes, he filled her in briefly on what had been happening at the department: examinations; marking; preparation; a flurry of meetings; all the usual cornucopia of the university reaching the end of its academic year. She asked about the cover arrangements for her particular students and was reassured by her colleague that all had gone well, though of course the students would be delighted to see her again before the semester ended. Kate felt herself wrapped in professional concern as if she’d slipped on a long coat for a cold night.

  It was only when she’d returned to her own office, to prepare for her first seminar, that with trembling fingers she opened the letter and read its contents.

  A quarter of an hour later, while she warmed her hands on the second mug of a hot, sweet tea she normally would have hated, her students began to arrive.

  They drifted in like shy foxes, almost seeming to apologise for their presence, though they had every right to attend what should have been a regular
weekly seminar. None of them held her gaze for long and she wondered why the attack on her should mean a barrier was built up where before there had been none. Was it on their part or hers? It was impossible to tell. And not fair on her students to expect them to deal with it either. They were too young.

  It was up to her.

  Asking what they’d thought about the exams brought a welcome focus to the meeting and she tried to concentrate all her thoughts on their mixed reaction of confidence and trepidation. It was strange how their words, slow at first and then more free-flowing, were drifting in and out of her consciousness and how their faces were floating near and then far away. What was happening to her? She shook her head and tried to smile and listen, but even then what she was hearing had no logic to it.

  Looking round the group, trying to catch the meaning of what she was being told and knowing how important it was, she realised nobody was talking now. They were silent, expectant, as if one of them – which one? – had asked a question only she could answer.

  She didn’t know what it had been. She couldn’t tell them anything. She’d let them down for the exams and now there was nothing she could give them. She was a fraud, a failure. What was she doing here?

  ‘Sorry? What did you say?’ she heard a voice, whispering, weak, drift out into the room’s strange emptiness and could hardly recognise it as her own. ‘I didn’t understand it.’

  ‘It’s just …’

  Kate turned to look at whoever had spoken. The movement seemed to take a long time and the weight on her shoulders felt as if she was being pressed down into the floor beneath. The young girl – Sal, she remembered, one of her brightest students – blushed beneath her unruly dark hair.

  ‘Yes?’ Kate said. ‘It’s just … what?’

  ‘It’s just … well, we’re so sorry. We’re sorry about what’s happened, but we’re glad you’re back, you know.’

  Sal trailed away, glanced at Kate and then glanced away again. Even as Kate acknowledged how much courage it must have taken her to say that, she felt her hands grow cold and an icy sweat broke out on her skin.

  ‘Thank you, but I must …’ she said, springing up. ‘I must … I’m sorry.’

  And then she was pushing through them, aware of startled expressions, looks of concern, and the sound of her own shoes fleeing across the thin carpet away from the prison of her office and her responsibilities.

  When she came to Andrew’s door, it was open and he was on the phone, his back to her. She tried to speak but no words came out. At least none that could be understood. Still she must have made a sound of some description or a sixth sense had told him she was there as he glanced round, one eyebrow raised. She gestured with her hands, for what purpose she couldn’t tell, then lifted her fingers to her face which felt wet, though she hadn’t been aware of crying.

  To his credit, he said nothing. As Kate stood trembling on the threshold, he got up, dropped the phone back onto its stand, waved her towards his chair and handed her a half-empty box of tissues. When she refused his offer of a drink of any variety, he shut the door, sat down opposite her and waited.

  ‘I’m sorry, Andrew,’ she said when she was able to. ‘I think I was wrong. I’m not ready for this. Not yet. I think I need to get away.’

  He reached forward, patting her hand once before leaning back again. ‘Kate, if you feel that’s the best way, then, yes, that is what you must do. Of course, you’ll have my full support. Where will you go?’

  When she opened her mouth to reply, to say: no that’s not what I mean, I don’t want to go anywhere, I just meant get away from here, that was when everything changed.

  Why not, she thought? My house, the town I live in, even my workplace no longer make me feel at ease. Perhaps I need to go somewhere where nobody knows anything about me or what has happened. Perhaps then I will know what to do.

  Her gaze drifted past the professor’s shoulder. Behind him, an old poster clung to the wall, one corner peeling away. On it was displayed a horse and carriage caught in swift movement passing a canal which gleamed in the sun. The woman in the carriage was laughing, blonde hair swept back by the breeze. She looked happy, free.

  Kate smiled.

  ‘Bruges,’ she said. ‘I’ll go to Bruges.’

  Two hours later, a leave of absence agreed and new arrangements made, Kate found herself in her bedroom, reaching to the top of her wardrobe for her case. It was only when she’d packed and the Eurostar seat had been booked that she allowed herself to remember the contents of this morning’s letter.

  Don’t think you can feel safe at work, it had read. Wherever you are, I’ll get you.

  Chapter Eight

  At Waterloo, the sweat and noise of the crowds on the Eurostar concourse so overwhelmed Kate that she almost turned back. But a grim determination not to fall away from the path she wanted to take propelled her through the check-in area, down the long line of waiting passengers and at last onto the platform where uniformed officials stood ready to direct the travellers into the correct seats. She thought too that amongst the mass of people around her was a sense of anonymity she could grasp and wear like a favourite item of clothing.

  The train itself – spurred on by Nicky’s encouragement, she’d taken the precaution of booking first class – was cool, quiet and relatively empty, at least in her carriage. A welcome contrast to the jagged noise of the station she was about to leave behind. For the first time, Kate felt as if she might learn to survive this, as if a part of her mind was turning away from the prison of memory and out beyond it, to somewhere she couldn’t yet see but which might one day be reachable.

  Shaking her head, she smiled inwardly. Getting away like this, before the end of semester, might have been the right decision, but she couldn’t afford to succumb to sloppy thinking. Not now and not ever.

  For most of the journey, she slept in a way she hadn’t been able to sleep for weeks. Neither in her house nor at Nicky’s. It was as if only here in the constant rocking movement of the train could she slip the bonds which tied her unwillingly to the memory of the attack. She wondered if the return journey would find her taking those bonds up again and forced her thoughts away from that direction; enough for the moment to take what came and give herself time out of her own life for a while. Yes, what she was doing was avoidance. Nothing more and nothing less. And why not? Only a few days from now, an important decision would have to be taken about the phone call she hadn’t yet made. But here, today, she was safe.

  At Brussels, she missed the connecting train to Bruges by five minutes and drank a scalding coffee in a small café in the station. Three times she was approached by Arabic women, one of them with a child in tow, begging for money. She gave to the first but shook her head for the next two. Her supply of euros was limited. Arriving in Bruges in the late afternoon, she decided against walking to the hotel and took a taxi which sped through the cobbled streets of the old town, passing couples and families in horse-drawn carriages, and numerous bicycles carrying both old and young. It must be the best way of getting around for locals, she thought, and tourists too, if hiring was available.

  Her home for the next four nights, over the Bank Holiday weekend, was the Hotel de Castillion, next door to the Cathedral. When her driver deposited her and her luggage at the entrance to the courtyard, she was met by a young, dark-haired woman who waved her hands, saying something in Flemish before smiling and switching to English.

  ‘English, madame? Yes? I am so sorry, I have to run over the road to see the other receptionist, our sister hotel, yes? I will be with you in only a few moments.’

  In the foyer, the dark leather sofas were an elegant match for the polished wooden welcome desk, and the mirrors behind them made the area seem larger than it really was. Kate took a handful of leaflets from the brochure stand, sat down on the sofa and glanced through them as she waited. She discarded the bicycle hiring company – though it did answer her earlier question – and the Chocolate Factory advertisement, bu
t slipped the museum and gallery information, as well as the Cathedral organ recital flyer, scheduled for Saturday, into her handbag. That might be something she would enjoy.

  When the receptionist returned ten minutes later, it didn’t take long for Kate to be installed in her small ensuite room with yet another wall-length mirror giving a sheen of elegance to her surroundings. After unpacking, she decided on an early evening stroll followed by a late supper at the hotel. She needed to see if she could be alone. There would be time enough to eat out during the few days she had here.

  Outside, after she’d made her way through the more tourist-orientated parts of the town with its accompanying rich smell of chocolate and horses, it was the architecture that drew her eye. The roofs of most of the tall, thin houses were castellated to a point, which gave the streets a magical air, as if in stepping out of her hotel Kate had been transported to a mysterious land somewhere out of time. Perhaps that was what she needed. To be out of time. She almost expected Rapunzel to lean out of one of the high-up windows and to let fall her long hank of hair to the water beneath.

  It was strange too how subtle the canals were. Not like Venice where the difference was shouted aloud like a street vendor’s sales talk. Here in Bruges the water flowed softly, almost unnoticed through the streets, only coming alive when Kate crossed over a bridge or stood leaning on the railings to gaze at the bank on the other side. The water made her feel peaceful, as if she were being protected by silk, interwoven in the plainer cotton of the town.

  On the way back to the hotel, she turned a corner of a quiet street and there in the centre of the road, a young couple were kissing. Not passionately, but with affection. The boy – for he was no more than a boy – took a half-step forward, his dark hair a contrast to the milky-coloured hair of the girl, and as he did so the bicycle he was clutching fell to the ground with a clatter. The girl sprang away, eyes dancing, and laughed before leaning down and retrieving the bicycle. As she handed it back to her beloved, now grinning and shrugging, her glance met Kate’s and she smiled before wrapping her arm round the young man and walking out of sight. To her surprise, Kate found herself smiling too, encased in the unexpected bubble of joy that had sprung into life at the incident.